


quiet confessions

by moegan



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: F/M, POV Vegeta (Dragon Ball), Vegeta (Dragon Ball) vs Feelings, Vegeta being Vegeta (Dragon Ball), basically vegeta is going on a monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moegan/pseuds/moegan
Summary: Request: “You’re in a coma and I confessed all my feelings for you only for you to wake up” trope/au for our boy Vegeta if you would, friend? Thank you!
Relationships: Vegeta (Dragon Ball)/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 120





	quiet confessions

“It’s been two hundred and thirty-two days since you last opened that stupid mouth of yours, said something irritating.”

He leans forward, head in his hands as he grips his hair harshly, wishing that maybe he could drag himself out of this harsh reality if he just put himself through enough pain. Maybe the universe would be kind, and switch the two of you so he could take the suffering from you.

“It was stupid, you know?” he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Stepping in front of me like that. You’re barely a fighter, hardly more than human. Buying me a couple of minutes wasn’t worth it.”

The beeping on the monitors that hold you hostage are on loop in his mind, playing like a bad movie he just can’t get out of his head. There have been wires attached to your body since before he could remember, it seems. His throat is dry from talking to you every day, hands raw from wringing them out as he paces.

“They say every day that you’re asleep is a day further away from you waking up,” his voice is raw, and if you could hear him he’s sure you would believe him to be weak. However, he’s alone, and for the first time in a long time, his heart is bleeding, as if he were pierced through the chest by the beam of a laser. “I hate the way that this makes me feel - so powerless, so helpless. The Mighty Prince Vegeta brought to nothing, all over a silly earth-woman.”

Once he’s sure that no one will walk through the door, he squats next to your bedside, running his bare fingertips over the length of your forearm, eyes heated with emotion as your pulse throbs dully in his ears.

“Stupid woman,” he speaks almost affectionately, swallowing the growing lump in his throat. “You’ve got to wake up, so I can tell you where my mind is at, what I’m thinking. Don’t you owe me that much?”

He waits, patience wearing thin as your heart beats slower with time. As the machine echoes loudly in the room, he tries to even his breathing in tandem with the sounds.

“No, I guess you don’t owe me anything.” His lower lip trembles, but he grits his teeth, straining his jaw muscles. “If there’s anyone who owes anyone else, it’s me. I owe you my life.”

Vegeta’s thumb brushes against your wrist, testing your pulse to be sure that it’s still beating, despite the evidence on the screen. He licks his lip, saliva filling the cracks, “Saiyans had a policy of a life debt. You’ve saved me, managed to keep me alive in spite of everything. And here you are, paying for it. If you wake up- _no…when_ you wake up, I’ll tell you all about life debts.”

He pinches the bed of your index fingernail, wishing that the pain would jolt you awake, “I can’t believe it took your life hanging in the balance for me to understand why I am so protective over you, why I want to keep you around despite the rest of the world annoying the piss out of me.”

The laugh that echoes in the room sounds more like a bark than anything else. Vegeta isn’t sure he recognizes his own voice.

“If you would just wake up, you godforsaken woman, I could tell you that I think you’re not _completely hideous_ when you smile, or when you play with your hair. Or I could tell you that you’re not an absolute idiot when you speak. I’d tell you that I look forward to the time I get to spend with you, even if I pretend to recoil at your existence. I-I might even tell you that I enjoy your touch, however brief, and that I wish I could feel it more.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing any emotion pent up in the form of tears back down into his ducts. He tucks his head into his knees, praying that no one walks in to see the mighty prince fallen by your bedside.

There’s the ghost of your touch, preying on his wrist. He wants to yank himself away, fearful that he’s too far gone to the point that he’s imagining things. Instead, he indulges, his closed eyes making it easier to pretend he’s feeling the warmth of your skin. 

His eyes go wide when he hears your voice, undeniable against the silence of the room. 

“You can keep going, I was enjoying that.”


End file.
